“Mason Grant.” He smiles, twirling his glass. “I was told you’d be attending. It’s nice to finally meet Reginald’s son. What finally brought you to London?”
A maddening existence who is trying to ruin my fucking life. How about you, posh twat?
“My father wanted us to make a presence. For old time’s sake.”
“He’s a clever man.” Lionel points in the direction of my father, who seems to be in a serious conversation with more suits than I left him with. “But I hear you’re more… pragmatic. I would very much like for us to stay in touch. Long term.”
“Of course, Sir Arnoult.” I offer my best smile. If only to end this conversation I have no interest in. He nods back with a wink, then blends into the crowd.
Hugo is already wrapped up in girls, mingling with a few guys I recognize from Kingsden. Two of them are Powell’s roommates who frequent 99, drowned in our alcohol and drugs. They wave toward me. I nod but ignore. I’m done with small talk tonight.
“This is such a fucking bore,” Hugo says as he approaches. “I can’t believe you dragged us to this.”
“Go sulk somewhere else,” I snap, scanning the new faces appearing at the doors.
“Will you calm the fuck down. Reginald is watching.” Hugo gestures at my fists that clench and unclench at my sides, knuckles whitening with effort. I shove my hands into my pockets, gripping the fabric. Something to keep me steady. “We’ll know when she’s here. Etheridges are as low-key as a marching band at a funeral.”
And then the temperature of the room hikes. The music lowers to barely audible, lights dimming on cue, making every head turn toward the spotlight at the entrance.
Only, no one is there.
Not yet.
Then they come—not the stars, but the opening act. Six men in black suits, all clean lines and cold stares, glide into the great hall. Two flank the entrance; two take position at the foot of the staircase; the last two post at the top. A choreographed synchronization.
Only then does the main performance begin.
Elton Etheridge—a gaudy short man—arrives with all the grandeur of a king stepping into a throne room rather than a ballroom. All velvet smirk and calculated charm. He floats in with the slow, confident grace of someone who’s used to gravity bending around him. His wave is royal, dismissive. The kind of gesture that suggests everyone else should be honored to be breathing the same air. The fucking prick.
A knot twists in my stomach, tightening until it presses against my throat. I’d almost forgotten how much I hated that bastard—hergrandfather. The sight of him tastes like rust and bile. The man responsible for the destruction of ancestral lands and businesses all over Fort. Some we rebuilt from the ground up. Others just got lost with time.
I hadn’t considered that I wouldn’t be seeing her alone—wrapped in her hoodie and skirt, wearing sarcasm and rolling those blue eyes. No, this time, she’ll be one of them.
Will she still feel the same, standing beside that viper dressed in black?
And then my question is answered.
A chuckle escapes my lips. Hugo throws me a look.
What appears to be a planned delayed entry of the Etheridge heirs is her struggling in her high heels. Her eyes widen, like a deer caught in the headlights, as she walks into the spotlight, clinging to her brother’s arm in front of a hundred people.
My breath comes harder, as I take her in—dressed in a light pink gown that hugs her curves, then trails behind her, kissing the floor. From the cascade of long warm-brown hair that is tied back with jeweled pins and falls to her arms veiled in fine net, to each diamond dangling from her ears, every inch is styled to perfection. Decorated to fit beside them, an heirloom on display.
She looks like a dream.
A dream onlyI’mallowed to have. Something that doesn’t seem clear to every bastard in this room who turns to look at her.
Hungry, leering, wanting eyes, masked as admiration, strip her bare in seconds. Heat rises in my chest, scorching me from the inside.
It doesn’t matter whose DNA she shares, whose fucking diamonds she wears. Under all of that façade, she isn’t theirs. She is fuckingmine.
And God helpanyonewho thinks they can change that.
My gaze moves to the man beside her, and my head pulses in response.
Daniel Etheridge—blond and groomed—looking every inch his name. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just a formidable presence befitting the room he’s walked into.
Lord Devereux steps onto the stairs to greet Elton with a handshake. My eyes measure every micro-expression on her face as Lord Devereux turns to the crowd, a microphone in hand.
